Ed McBain - Long Time No See

He decided to call Fort Mercer.

His reasoning had nothing to do with sound deduction. It had only to do with desperation. Before talking to Sophie, he had known next to nothing about the dead man. In any homicide it was essential to learn how the victim had spent his last twenty-four hours — where he’d gone, the people he’d seen, the events that had taken place. He knew where Isabel Harris had spent at least a portion of the twenty-four hours before her death; she had spent them in bed with Frank Preston. But all he knew about Jimmy was that he’d left the house at his usual hour in the morning, and presumably walked his usual beggar’s route on Hall Avenue throughout the day, and most likely stopped at a bar, as usual, before heading home after the rush hour.

Carella had neglected to ask Isabel whether Jimmy frequented the same bar each day. A mistake. Maybe a bad one. There was no Isabel to ask any more, but there existed nonetheless the possibility that Jimmy had met someone in the bar, argued with someone, antagonized someone — who the hell knew? The bar was still a mystery, solely because of Carella’s oversight. It bothered him that he had goofed. He fretted about it, but he didn’t agonize over it. Instead, he examined the two pieces of information he now possessed, a pair of seemingly unrelated fragments that changed Jimmy Harris from a corpse into a living, breathing human being.

At the moment there was nothing he could do about the first piece of information. If Jimmy Harris had indeed contacted an old Army buddy with some sort of get-rich-quick scheme, possibly illegal, Carella had no way of ascertaining this without talking to the old Army buddies. Right now he knew nothing about Jimmy’s Army career, except that he’d been in the 2nd Squad’s Alpha Fire Team and he’d been blinded in action. If he got lucky, Captain McCormick would get back to him before Monday with the service information he’d requested. He doubted he would get lucky. But there was one other thing he had learned from Sophie Harris.

Her son was having nightmares.

Carella dialed “O” for Operator, and asked for the area code for Fort Mercer. The operator said she didn’t have a town called Fort Mercer. Carella said it was upstate someplace near Castleview Prison. She said she didn’t know where Castleview Prison was. He told her it was in Rawley. She gave him an area code, and he dialed first the number 1, and then the area code, and then the numerals 555, and then the numerals 1212. By that time he’d forgotten why he was dialing this long succession of numbers, and he’d also forgotten his shield number, his social security number and his middle initial. Another operator said, “Information, what city?” and Carella told her he thought it was near Rawley, and said he was trying to reach Fort Mercer. The Operator said, “That’s in Paxton, sir,” and then said, “I have several listings for Fort Mercer, which one did you wish?”

“The hospital,” he said.

“I’ve got a General Hospital and an Evacuation Hospital.”

“Let’s try the General Hospital.”

“Do you wish to write the number down, sir?”

“Yes, please,” Carella said.

“963-7047,” she said.

“Thank you,” Carella said. “That’s 963...”

But she’d already hung up. He sighed, dialed the number 1, and then the area code, and then the numerals 963, and then the numerals 7047. The phone rang. Across the room, Genero, whose tastes were catholic, switched the radio to a rock-and-roll station. Up in Paxton, the phone was still ringing. Carella wondered if the hospital was closed.

“Hospital,” a man’s voice said.

“Is this the Fort Mercer General Hospital?” Carella asked.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad, Isola. I’m calling in regard to a patient you had there some ten years ago. I wonder if I could talk to someone who—”

“Who did you want to talk to, sir?”

“Whoever might have detailed knowledge of the patient.”

“Well, sir... how would I know who that might be, sir?”

“Is there anyone there who goes back ten years?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure there is. But... sir, this is a very big facility, sir, I really wouldn’t know where to connect you.”

“May I speak to whoever is in command of the facility?”

“That would be General Wrigley, sir.”

“Could you connect me, please?”

“Just one moment, sir.”

Carella waited. A woman’s voice came on the phone almost instantly.

“General Wrigley’s office.”

“This is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad in Isola. May I please speak to the general?”

“I’m sorry, sir, he isn’t in today.”

“Perhaps you can help me,” Carella said.

“I’ll try, sir.”

“We’re investigating a homicide in which the victim was once a patient at Fort Mercer. I’m trying to learn whatever I can about him.”

“When was he a patient here?”

“Ten years ago.”

“Mm,” the woman said.

“I know that’s a long time ago.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“But I’m sure your records go back that far.”

“Yes, sir, they do, that’s not the problem.”

“What is the problem?”

“Sir, I really don’t think this is something that can be handled on the telephone.”

“I was trying to save myself a trip upstate. This is a homicide.”

“Well, HI put you through to Records.”

“Thank you.”

“Just hang on,” she said. “It’ll sound as if I’m hanging up, but I’m only transferring the call.”

“Thank you.”

Again he waited. He decided that homicide was an intrusion. Nobody wanted intrusions in their lives, nobody wanted you calling from the big city to ask about a man who’d passed this way ten years ago. Hell with that. There was a hospital to run here, a facility. Lots of sick people here. I’ll put you through to Records. Records might be interested. Records dealt with history, the distant past and the more recent. I’ll put you through to Records because we here among the quick albeit sick just can’t be bothered, you see, with corpses who once lived in the neighborhood.

“Records, Sergeant Hollister speaking.”

“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad, I’m looking for some information about a homicide victim.”

Sergeant Hollister whistled. “Shoot,” he said.

“The name is James Harris, he was in the Fort Mercer hospital ten years ago.”

“Any middle name?”

“Randolph.”

“This’ll take some time,” Hollister said. “Let me get back to you.”

“The number here is Frederick 7-8024. But, Sergeant...”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m really more interested in talking to someone who might have known him while he was there. I mean, rather than you reading to me from his records.”

“Well, let me see what the records indicate, okay, sir? I’ll get back to you in a little while.”

“Sergeant, this is a homicide.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that.”

“Thank you, I’ll be waiting for your call.”

There was a click on the line. Carella looked up at the wall clock. The time was 10:37 a.m.

“How do you spell vehicular?” Genero asked

"You’ve got the dictionary right there, just look it up,” Carella said.

“How can I look it up if I don’t know how to spell it?”

“Well, you know it starts with a V, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but then what?” Genero said.

Carella looked up at the clock again.

The time was 10:38 a.m.

The call from upstate did not come till a few minutes past eleven. By then Carella had called the I.S. for a routine check on Charles C. Clarke, and had finished typing his updated reports in triplicate. The I.S. had promised to get back to him at once. He expected he would hear from them by Monday unless he called them again later in the day. He also expected he would have to call the hospital back. In America, and maybe throughout the whole wide world for all he knew, nobody ever got anything done unless you called twice. And then followed the second call with a letter. And then called again a week after the follow-up letter. He suspected it had been this way in ancient Rome, just before the barbarian hordes broke through the northern barricades and rode their ponies into the streets. Senators picking up the skirts of their togas and running for their lives, clutching unanswered tablets to their chests. Secretaries running along behind them, chewing gum, clothes in disarray.